


We don’t need a globe to show you the world is ours

by Chaosandgunpowder



Series: Carved in gold and ice (Jamilton mob!verse) [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex is a manic lawyer, Alternate Universe - Mob, Blood, Explicit Language, Gore, James POV, M/M, Modern Era, Oblivious James, Overprotective James, Potty mouth Alex is my headcanon, Sexual Content, They're both twisted little bastards, Thomas is a mob boss, Violence, come on they're the mob, james can't even with these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26510983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaosandgunpowder/pseuds/Chaosandgunpowder
Summary: “Thomas-” he starts carefully, because cutthroat little bastard in a courtroom or not, Alexander Hamilton is a pain in James’ ass and he doesn’t like the amount of faith in Thomas’s voice when he says the shit’s name. By all rights the savant young lawyer is, at best, a tempestuous, volatile resource to be treated with caution, and at worst a fleeting, dangerous distraction in Thomas’s bed. James doesn’t trust him one bit.~In which Thomas is a violent mob boss, Alexander is a feral lawyer, and for once they actually have their (twisted) shit together and are dealing just fine. It's overprotective James who's being a little late to understand what the hell is going on. Here's how he slowly figures it out.~Mob Jamilton from James POV
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Series: Carved in gold and ice (Jamilton mob!verse) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930312
Comments: 52
Kudos: 202





	We don’t need a globe to show you the world is ours

**Author's Note:**

> This was a bunny that got way out of hand.
> 
> I’m 92,000 words into an unfinished slow-burn Jamilton office AU and this (and the follow up prequel, and intersecting one-shots, argh) would NOT LEAVE ME ALONE. 
> 
> Help.

“Call Hamilton.” 

It’s the first thing Thomas says to him when he gets the phone call. He sounds bored. He knows already, of course, that the police have pulled Thomas in, the grapevine making it’s way to him a few hours ago because he wasn’t around when it happened and he’s been scrambling ever since to try and find out what they have, what they know, how much he should be worried.

“Thomas-” he starts carefully, because cutthroat little bastard in a courtroom or not, Alexander Hamilton is a pain in James’s ass and he doesn’t like the amount of faith in Thomas’s voice when he says the shit’s name. By all rights the savant young lawyer is, at best, a tempestuous, volatile resource to be treated with caution, and at worst a fleeting, dangerous distraction in Thomas’s bed. James doesn’t trust him one bit.

Thomas hangs up on him. He won’t let the cops have the satisfaction of hearing his plans, his pleas. Any more words out of his mouth and they might be able to discern whether he’s worried or amused, stressed or smug. He can’t have them thinking either, will be giving them careful, calculating blankness. 

James doesn’t call Hamilton.

Burr calls him two hours after James sends him to the station, pissed off at being treated like a glorified messenger pigeon. _Mr Jefferson would not accept my legal counsel. He told me to tell you to “call his fucking lawyer”. I don’t think I can do much as is, it sounds tied up too tight. I saw Mercer on my way out here, he looked too happy-_

James groans in frustration. He still doesn’t call Hamilton. Thomas is being petulant. _Burr_ is their lawyer, has been for years. James won’t acknowledge that snarky, smarmy shit as anything to do with them in any official capacity. 

He’s almost regretting it as the day reaches into the evening. Burr’s managed to get a hold of the charges anyway and isn’t hopeful he can wriggle Thomas out anytime today. He won’t go to jail, of course, the idea is ludicrous, but they’ve got enough paperwork to jam him up in lockup for a few nights - they’re probably hoping someone will try to _take care of him_ while he’s in there - and Thomas will be raging about it when he gets home. Hopefully.

His phone rings again, unknown number, and James sighs and wonders which of the cops on their payroll has given Thomas another phone call. 

“Thomas,” he answers firmly at the low growl on the other end of the phone. “Burr can’t find anything he can use right now. Sit tigh-”

“ _And you wonder why I didn’t want him._ ” Thomas spits coldly down the phone and James stiffens, because he’s _pissed_ if he’s letting any emotion bleed out. “Burr is _our_ lawyer. He is not _my_ lawyer. Call _Alexander_. Don’t make me ask again, James.” 

James paces about. Grumbles. Procrastinates on it. Gives in and calls Hamilton. It takes three tries. It sounds like he was sleeping, though it’s eight in the evening at this point. James has given up trying to understand his schedule. Once he’s caught up, Hamilton bitches him out for twenty minutes straight in a muffled, scratchy voice as he slams around his apartment in the background, and James _almost_ feels bad for the cops who are going to be on the other end of this rudely-awoken, caffeine-less demon until Hamilton sharply demands James send him a car and a coffee to take him to the station and he hangs up on the guy.

This is the problem with Hamilton; he demands. He comes to Thomas and _demands_. Time, respect, trust, lenience, _patience_. He comes swanning in to The Townhouse, rude and loud and obnoxious and argumentative and _demanding._ And Thomas indulges. It makes him look weak; this bratty, disrespectful little shit walking in and thinking he can speak to Thomas however he likes; make demands, just because he knows how to spread his legs, and Thomas fucking _lets_ him. What sort of an example does that set? Thomas can’t afford for the sharks circling to think he’s capable of being led around by his cock. And yet here’s Hamilton, wriggling himself in to one of the most compromising positions he can - Thomas’s _lawyer_ for fucks sake, he could ruin Thomas with a few well chosen words, a missed loophole, an unexpected charge.

James goes along with the car, sits in the back and tells Hamilton to _get fucked_ when the asshole throws himself in beside him and raises an expectant eyebrow for his coffee. They sit in grumpy silence and James almost wants to punch him when he realizes Hamilton has fallen back to sleep by the time they reach the precinct. He kicks him instead and Hamilton cracks open one eye and glares, says _you may as well wait here_ and stumbles out, slamming the door in James’ face as he gears up for a fight. 

Not half an hour after hurricane Hamilton storms in, Thomas is swaggering out and down the steps, arms lazily stretching above his head, smug smile in place. James grits his teeth in relief and annoyance, wants to know how and doesn’t want to know how. He jumps out and throws open a door expectantly for his best friend, his boss, but Thomas looks behind him, frowns, rolls his eyes and actively _walks back into a fucking police station_ , emerging two minutes later dragging Hamilton behind him by the collar, red-faced, choking slightly but still furiously ranting. 

Thomas throws Hamilton bodily into the back seat and slides in after him. James sits opposite them, the car tense and silent except for Hamilton’s constant under-his-breath bitching and nonsense-grumbling _fucking assholes think they know the law better than me, please, fucking Christ my head hurts I need coffee, this is bullshit, don’t know how you expect me to fucking function without-_ until Thomas snappily orders them to a drive-thru Starbucks on the way back to the house, glaring at James like the little asshole’s attitude is _his_ fault and not the fact that Thomas won’t just slap some respect into him in front of half their men.

He pretends to himself that their driver won’t be sharing everything he’s seen this evening throughout their organization, that it won’t spread like wildfire who was called upon to bust Thomas out of trouble and how quickly he’d managed to do it. He just hopes to God no-one hears about how Thomas hadn’t calmed down enough to start to confer with James on where the police had gotten their intel from until Hamilton’s grabby little hands had curled around a warm takeaway cup and his pleased, relaxed sighs echoed through the car.

That’s really the last thing they need.

~~~

A month later James is sat in the tiny kitchen in Thomas’s private attic annex, newspaper spread out in front of him and eating a bacon sandwich away from the shuffle downstairs when Thomas putters in, grinning and humming. It’s so unexpected that it’s almost cute, he almost finds himself smiling, before he realizes who’s likely caused it and rolls his eyes instead. Thomas has spent the weekend to himself away from the business, meeting with an old friend who happened to be a mutual acquaintance of Hamilton’s. The three of them have been catching up on and off for days. James has to admit that the great deal of respect he’d always held for the Marquis had soured somewhat on learning that he counted _Hamilton_ among his best friends. 

Thomas nods gratefully at Martha, the only staff he allows up in his private rooms, trusted and quiet and reliable, when she slides a bacon sandwich of his own across the counter to him. He picks it up on his way downstairs, slaps James twice on the back as he passes, doesn’t stop to chat long, just throws out _running late, morning Jem, is Greene here yet? Martha, if Alexander hasn’t shown his face by nine give him a nudge, tell him he’s got things to do that don’t involve being a lazy shit. Take coffee and hide behind it-_

Martha comes to James at nine-oh-two that morning. He’s still in the kitchen, he’s got a pounding headache and he needs to focus on the latest reports in from their eyes and ears without being bugged by a million people wanting to know where Thomas is or what kind of a mood he’s in like he’s a glorified secretary. She keeps her eyes on the full mug of coffee in her hand when she speaks hesitantly.

“Mister Madison, I, er. I knocked to wake up Mister Hamilton, but there wasn’t any…I don’t…” she trails off, biting her lip, uncertain of how to proceed. Fucking Hamilton. 

None of the staff know how to approach the _Hamilton_ situation. It’s unprecedented and it’s thrown them off. They’ve all been unsure and cautious for a while now, scared to show him too much undue respect that Thomas hasn’t deemed warranted, but scared to show him too little ever since Thomas had made a show of dismissing his usually favored lap dancer the last time he’d visited Carter’s club. 

The twink had crawled up on his lap in between conversations and Thomas had unceremoniously dumped him on his ass without a glance. He’d also outright refused anyone else Carter had offered just in case the guy had offended somehow, seemed content to have his discussions late into the night and leave unsatisfied, instead directing that the car stop off at Hamilton’s apartment on the way home. Despite it being four in the morning it had only taken five minutes before the little lawyer was climbing into the car, eyes squinty and sleepy, still wearing soft, worn-in pajama pants and a hoodie, dirty unlaced sneakers and messy bird’s nest of a bed head, slurring that he _wasn’t a fucking teddy bear, you overgrown child do you know what time it is god I fucking hate you so much_ and yet crawling his walmart-pajama’d ass directly into Thomas’s Armani-clad lap, curling up and pressing his face to the skin of his neck, snuffling contentedly and falling straight back to sleep. Thomas had wrapped one arm comfortably around him, threaded fingers into that haystack on his head and continued scrolling through his phone, completely impassive, unprepared and unwilling to offer any explanation or acknowledgment. James had been so fucking confused. How fantastic a lay could this guy possibly be to make it worth this effort for a booty call as opposed to just getting his dick wet at the club? When he’d swung round to look at Monty in the driver’s seat, the kid’s eyes were unsurprised and unfazed behind his thick-rimmed black spectacles in a way that made it clear that it was hardly the first time this had happened. 

It _was_ , however, the first time it had happened with James, a bodyguard and Henry Knox in the car too, so the story hadn’t then taken long to spread amongst the staff of The Townhouse, all now hopelessly uncertain of the correct way to behave toward the guy. Of course Martha was unsettled, poor thing. 

James sighs. “Don’t worry, I’ll go and deal with him.”

Relief flashes in her eyes and she immediately proffers the mug. James takes it and dumps it in the sink on his way out of the room, petty but satisfying. He’s not taking Hamilton _coffee_.

Martha’s right, there’s no answer to a knock on the bedroom door. James almost thinks he’s going to find an empty room when he cracks it open, thinks Hamilton might have skittered off out of the window or something like a spitting, hissing cat, but there are legs protruding from under Thomas’s messily-made four-poster, soft and bare right up to the tight boxer shorts covering his ass, mottled, purpling, finger-shaped bruises there so distinct it almost appears that Thomas may have dipped his hands in paint before wrapping them around Hamilton’s lean thighs. He’s obviously not heard the door from under the mess of comforter half falling off the bed and onto his back as he scrabbles around doing _something_ under there and James is instantly, _furiously_ suspicious. 

“Hamilton,” he snaps, hackles raised, “What the fuck are you doing?”

There’s a loud _crack_ and and even louder _motherfucker_ as Hamilton jumps and bangs his head. He wriggles out from under the bed, oversized sweater riding up his back as he does so, James catches scabbed-over fingernail scrapes at the base of his spine before he snaps his gaze away because he knows Thomas well enough to know he won’t appreciate James staring. Hamilton straightens carefully, pulls out a hand holding his phone with a triumphant huff, rubs the back of his head with the other hand. He seems completely unconcerned to be sat cross legged on the floor in his underwear in front of James.

“Dropped my phone. It’s fucking gross under there, Madison. Doesn’t he have someone cleaning this shit?”

He’s lying. He has to be lying. James just _knows_ he’s lying. He seethes as he snaps at Hamilton to get the fuck up, to go and do something useful to someone. Preferably somewhere else far away. Hamilton glares and grumbles and flips him off, pulls on two-day old clothes and goes downstairs to find Monty to take him home, spitting fire without his caffeine.

James waits until he hears the car leave before he goes back up and crawls under Thomas’s bed. He scours every fucking inch looking for whatever the hell it was Hamilton was doing under here, viciously wants to find some kind of bug, a camera, a microphone, a fucking _weapon_ , anything to prove to himself - to _Thomas_ \- that he can’t be trusted. He’s even more pissed after two entire hours when he can’t find _anything_. He’s touched every inch of the bed frame for any imperfections or any hollows with anything tucked away. He’s scoured the bottom of the mattress for cuts or marks or holes. There’s nothing on the floor either, just a wiggly, creaking floorboard and a couple of gouges in the wood where furniture has scraped along it. It’s maddening and worst of all, Hamilton is right.

It _is_ fucking gross under there.

~~~

Despite the fact that he couldn’t find any evidence of Hamilton’s misdeeds, James is now utterly sure the little asshole can’t be trusted, his ever-present low lying suspicion now fanned and fed until concern for Thomas’s safety convinces him he needs to set a trap. He goes to the back of one of their safes one day while Thomas is out, the one behind the portrait of Monticello hanging in the study, pulls out a single, thumbnail-sized, blood-red ruby from a bag of fifty. He’s going to press it into the hand of someone he trusts - Knox, maybe - and pay him to go to Hamilton, pretend he wants something Thomas is reluctant to grant. Knox will give this in payment for Hamilton _convincing_ Thomas. Threaten him, rough him up to make sure he stays quiet about it. It has to be one of _these_ rubies, something that Thomas will easily recognize as coming from his own study, so that when James points to it as evidence that Hamilton can’t be trusted, that he’s shown his true colors, it will undeniably be the same one he’d sent Knox with. Even if Hamilton doesn’t actually do the convincing, just having the jewel kept in his possession or selling it on for cash he clearly needs, _whatever_ , would surely be enough to finally pique Thomas’s common sense into thinking he’s maybe not the angel Thomas seems to think he is. 

Four days later Knox texts him; _Done. He took it. Slapped him up a little. Didn’t leave bruises_. James glares at those three little words and wonders why he’s so angrily disappointed when this was what he’d expected. _He took it._

It’s not four _hours_ later that James starts to regret what he’s done.

They’re eating the first course of dinner; the cooks always put enough of a spread on so that whoever happens to be around headquarters on any given evening will be fed heartily. Thomas is always generous with his boys. There’s enough people around the long table that James has to force down an internal wince when he hears the front door crash open, because it’s an obnoxious, uncaring _bang_ that’s too _Hamilton_ for his liking, too soon after Knox’ message, and Thomas’s head snapping up confirms it for him. Next to him, Wilkinson stiffens, suddenly not knowing what to expect from the rest of his evening now, typically a disturbance in The Townhouse results in someone bleeding copiously. There are fidgets around the room.

Hamilton flings himself into the dining room, presumably in search of Thomas. He’s in ridiculously tight jeans and a worn-in raglan t-shirt with a hole in one elbow, hair slung up messy and he looks like such a fucking _sugar baby_ even though James has heard him belligerently tell Thomas that he can _shove his money up his ass_ on more than one occasion and it almost makes James want to cry with how much damage he’s doing to Thomas’s reputation right now. 

The room stares at Hamilton and James expects - well, honestly, it’s more like he just _hopes_ at this point - that Hamilton will stop, pause, _apologize_ for interrupting. Slamming in the way he has is still more disrespect than anyone _else_ is allowed to show without getting a beating, but at least it would go some way to alleviate the blatancy of it. 

But no. It’s like Hamilton doesn’t even see the fifteen or so career criminals around the table, eyes zeroed in on Thomas and he’s furious. James’ stomach drops and he starts to feel a small, anxious churning there. Hamilton’s eyes are cold and hard, face set and angry and for a second James can see how he might intimidate a courtroom, so juxtaposed to how James tends to think of him, sleepy and messy and obviously fucked out at Thomas’s private kitchen table in the annex upstairs in the early mornings before he runs off to terrorize someone else for a while.

James hopes he’s the only one who catches the flash of concern that graces Thomas’s face before there’s impassive steel in it’s place as Hamilton juts his chin and grits his teeth, storms right the way down the length of the table and past Thomas through to the private back room, door hinges creaking as he takes his tantrum out on it, doesn’t spare Thomas even a second glance in his ire. It’s a new low, nothing less than a fucking _summons_. An order. He’s giving unspoken _orders_ to the man who owns New York. _You will follow me_. The room is quiet. James narrows his eyes at his friend. Don’t you dare. Across from James, Adams stares down into his soup. Nobody wants to do the wrong thing and end up on the receiving end of the temper Thomas refuses to direct where it belongs. 

Thomas sighs and methodically dabs his mouth with a napkin, goes to stand and James’ jaw clicks from swallowing down his groan. One of the staff appears miraculously to swipe Thomas’s plate from the table and squirrel it away to keep it warm as he strides lazily after his errant toy.

James thinks he can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock out in the hallway in the silence that follows.

Right up until Thomas and Hamilton start screaming, that is. 

James jumps immediately into conversation, determinedly pushes it, drives it, keeps it flowing so that their exact words are lost on everyone. He can spare Thomas this at least. It’s bad enough that the whole table can hear them going at each other, that Thomas’s angry roar keeps being interrupted by Hamilton’s outraged screeching. It’s bad enough that the slam of what sounds like a fist on furniture comes with the dinner guests tensing for a gunshot or gargling scream any second now, bracing for something that will be damningly missed when it doesn’t come. Because it won’t. 

There’s a sudden _thump_ and the back room goes exceedingly quiet. James doesn’t falter in his persistence, because he knows there’s no way that Thomas has done what half the table thinks he ought. He keeps them chatting for an hour, right the way through the second course being cleared away and then right through the truly _obscene_ noises that follow; informing half the fucking city that Hamilton was most definitely still alive in there, and seemed to be a damn sight happier than when he went in, in fact. 

_Oh fuck-fucking yes, yes, yes, right there, motherfucker, Thomas, yes, ma tempête, don’t stop, don’t stop, harder, holy shit._

Thomas comes back alone just as dessert is being brought out. He’s put together but rumpled. There’s a bloodstain smeared up his sleeve that will somewhat mollify restless minds, but there’s also four long, bloody, fingernail gashes down his neck into his collar, unbuttoned and hanging wide on purpose, showing them off. It’s an open message that makes James want to throttle him because he’s telling them all on purpose exactly what James has been trying to hide; _I’m allowing this behavior from him._

To punctuate it, as Thomas raises his spoon, skipping dinner and going straight to his crème brûlée, the sound of the double doors into the great hall shuddering around another slam echoes through the house as Hamilton leaves with as much drama as he came with, on his own two functioning legs - though James will concede he’s probably limping somewhat.

As talk turns to their latest ventures through coffees and then onto their rivals and rumors of their shit-talking over cigars, James’s concern comes alive; Reynolds makes a snide comment; _Surely they can say what they like about you boss, as long as they spread wide enough, right?_

—  
Reynolds leaves The Townhouse that evening having lost half his brain cells from the calculated beating Thomas gives him. Everyone else at the table leaves having understood the real message: _Hamilton is an exception._

When the door shuts behind the last of them, Thomas doesn’t even look at him, just spits _stay_ like he’s speaking to a misbehaving dog and disappears into the night. 

James stays. 

James _stays_ and _sits_ and paces the room until the early hours, until Thomas comes home a little stained and a lot stony faced.

“Are you alright, Tom?” James asks cautiously.

“No.” Thomas says, cool and vicious. “No I’m _not_. I’m angry and offended and _tired_ and I want to be in bed, preferably not alone, but I’m not, because I’ve had to go out and _clean up your fucking mess_.” He loses his temper on the last, the bellow echoing around the empty room alongside the slam of his fist down on the table. 

When he lifts it away, there’s a slightly blood-stained ruby there. 

Well. _Shit._

Thomas backhands him sharply across the face and James burns with the humiliation of it, how he’d not even deserved a fist. It’s only the third time Thomas has ever even hit him and it it makes him feel sick that it’s over _Hamilton_. Thomas rages, hissing cold and venomous like a snake and James has never truly believed Thomas would hurt him, _really_ hurt him, and he still doesn’t, but the ice in his friend’s tone gives him enough pause that he’s not completely certain anymore.

It makes him nervous and he hates it. He’s able to piece together that while Hamilton had apparently been smart enough to recognize a set-up when he saw one he’d confused the perpetrator; his furious hurt at being distrusted directed at Thomas and _oh boy_ , Thomas had recognized the ruby, alright, just like James had expected, had _wanted._ He’d known exactly who had sent Knox to Hamilton, because there were only two people with access to that safe.

Hamilton had sold James out without even realizing it, coming in hot with spitting, angry outrage to attack in defense of himself, _to shove the damn thing up my ass_ Thomas says bitterly, and then quieter; _to break up with me_ and James doesn’t really have time to process that because Thomas turns his own sudden angry outrage on James and says;

“I won’t clean up after you again.”

“It won’t _happen_ again.” James says, knowing his line. James knows that he won’t be hearing from Knox again. That it’s for James’s sake, in the end, because otherwise it would be James himself on the chopping block. Because Thomas can’t have anyone knowing that his right hand man had gone behind his back. It suggests- well it suggests-

“You don’t trust me.” Thomas says flat and deadly and James has to be so, so careful here.

“Of course I trust you. I don’t trust _him_.” He says and there, _there_ it’s out there and even as Thomas’s hackles raise, James feels better. 

Right up until Thomas looks at him like he’s a stranger. 

“You don’t need to trust him,” Thomas snaps. “You need to trust me.” His eyes have their own hurt in them and his voice shakes just a little and he says; “You almost lost me something important tonight, James.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s not talking about his reputation. 

_To break up with me._

Thomas is in love with the little bastard.

Fuck.

~~~

News spreads that Knox tried to go through Hamilton to help persuade Thomas to start selling guns to a new right-wing propaganda group he’s not sure of whether he wants to indulge yet. 

News spreads that there’s now no news of Knox.

So at least Thomas has managed to turn James’s fuck up into a teaching moment. _Don’t involve him._

He’s severely misjudged the situation, he thinks, during a meeting one evening, sat further down the table than he’s ever been, getting alternating sympathetic and curious looks. Thomas’s temper has still not fully abated. He’s not spoken properly to James in two weeks. 

Yes, James has made a mistake here. He’d thought Hamilton another passing fancy, albeit one Thomas had taken an unprecedented liking to, allowing far more transgressions than he would normally, in exchange for what James assumed must be a pretty decent ass to compensate. And he could defend himself in that, because Thomas didn’t _do_ love. He’s never been interested in _love_. Thomas did recurring flings at most. Thomas loved exactly four things; his family, James, money, and the power it gave him. Maybe violence. Thomas got enough of a thrilled spark in his eyes at the sight of blood, the sound of flesh taking a beating that James could probably count violence among those things too. But that was it. So James could surely be forgiven for thinking Hamilton was bound to be gone soon; swanning away with half of Thomas’s reputation with how little respect he’d shown during their fling. 

_To break up with me._ He hadn’t realized there was a relationship there _to_ break, but he reassess, now, with Thomas cold and distant toward him because James _almost lost him something important_. He’d only been trying to protect Thomas, but with his friend’s heart involved, there’s no way to remove the problem without hurting him. He sees that, now. Whether he’s wrong or not, Thomas thinks he’s found himself a precious, sanctimonious little angel he doesn’t want to get dirty with their work and there’s nothing James can do about it but fall in line. He has to; it will be easier to keep an eye on the situation from Thomas’s right hand side. _Keeping an eye on the situation_ is all he can do right now, because Thomas is in _love_. 

So Hamilton has to stay. Fine. James can deal with that, if the alternative is a broken-hearted best friend who hates him. Or kills him. He won’t try and get rid of the asshole, but he’s damn well not going to let his guard down around him. He hasn’t forgotten that Hamilton’s pseudo-daddy is a judge, that he works in a building full of people just dying to be the one to get something concrete on Thomas. He’ll just have to watch over Thomas until this all comes to a head; until Thomas gets hurt, and then James will be there to have his back and build him back up when it goes to shit. Because it will. Lesson or no, having Hamilton around is still dangerous. For both of them.

It’s obvious to everyone now that Thomas is attached to Hamilton. Thomas might not be seen as weak in and of itself, but he does now have a weakness. A weakness James still doesn’t trust. It’s a concern, James thinks, because while each of the men around the table tonight can be trusted to do their jobs and keep their mouths shut, he’d be a fool to think they’re all _loyal._

Thomas tends to inspire blind loyalty in his men; he rewards the deserving with generosity, benevolence, a loyalty of his own - his boys live a life of luxury, he wouldn’t fuck you over without due cause, expedites all the resources he can to keep them all out of any permanent trouble so long as they’re smart about getting into it. The majority of them adore him. But not all their men are Thomas’s soley - there are enough guys left over from King’s usurped throne that managed to talk their way out of a bullet to the back of the skull and into Thomas’s growing network to make James nervous. 

Because while all of the boys Thomas brought with him from Monticello will be quick to fall in line, there will be those that look at Hamilton and see a soft, squishy, accessible weakness. It’s been made clear that he won’t hold with being used as a direct line to whisper into Thomas’s ear, but it’s also been made clear exactly what his purpose _is_. Thomas has shown them all in no uncertain terms that Hamilton is a special kind of challenge, how that loudmouth little shit will yell and rage and burn but eventually spread and shamelessly scream. 

The _only for Thomas_ is clear too, despite it being unspoken, but James knows it won’t be long before someone thinks it will be easy to take some of that fire for themselves, even if only for ego. For all his showboating, Hamilton is a prissy fucking princess, fragile and breakable; just how Thomas likes them, and Thomas has never been pleased when other people play with his toys. James just hopes it won’t be too messy when it happens. 

~~~

James has to rethink Alexander Hamilton two weeks later, when it _does_ happen and it _is_ messy, but not in any way he’d expected. 

Hamilton’s been around all morning for once instead of dashing off like an energizer bunny, spent the morning curled up in Thomas’s lap with a book on vivisection in his own. The guy deals with some fucked up cases, but it’s his propensity for burying himself in all there is to know about a subject, until he learns it backward and forward and could perform it himself that makes him such an intensely good lawyer, able to extrapolate and think on his feet in the courtroom - it’s also what makes him unsettling. 

Not that James has commented. Thomas has finally forgiven him and he’s allowed back into the annex. He doesn’t want to jeopardize his friendship again. But Hamilton’s intense focus is a little disturbing. He teaches himself all these things as he goes along, soaks it all up like a sponge. Thomas finds it fascinating. James finds it weird. He’s not even certain it’s all for Hamilton’s cases. He just hates being _bored._

Last month he was learning about cutting coke. He’d read for four days straight and then gone out and spent hours talking to addicts non-stop about their highs, their mixes, their cuts - can you tell the cut? How? How different does it feel? What’s the smallest ratio you’ve ever taken? How did that compare? On and on and on until he’d come back to The Townhouse, done a series of lines of his own, recorded a bunch of voice memos for later reference and worked through the rest of his high sat atop Thomas’s dick, burning up that excess energy riding Thomas for so long that for once it was Hamilton’s name - among various other things - heard cried out throughout the rooms upstairs. 

This month he was teaching himself how to vivisect. Naturally.

Hamilton bails shortly after lunch, receives an emergency call from George bloody Washington and James is just going to ignore the fact that the judge that presides over the majority of the criminal charges levied against them calls Thomas’s boyfriend up in an emergency, because he might fucking shoot himself if he thinks about it too hard. Hamilton rants for a bit but eventually fucks off with his torture book to get changed for the impromptu meeting, leaves Thomas and James to spend their afternoon with the club and casino runners, dull business updates abound, but everyone seems to be profiting well, especially after some recent changes and Thomas is pleased. Everything is always better when Thomas is pleased. 

Carter has just finished outlining his plans for a new casino, Thomas nodding interestedly, relaxed, calm chatter around the table when a noise like a squealing pig punctuates the bubble. It’s quiet enough that it has to have originated from far deeper into the house, because the force it sounds like it’s delivered with suggests it should be _deafening._ James sets down his glass, stands to go to investigate but the slamming down the hallway indicates the bedlam is headed their way. The way most eyes flick to Thomas indicates to James that everyone knows damn well what - or who - the source of that bedlam is, so he’s expecting it when Hamilton barges in.

What he’s not expecting is that the guy is covered in blood. Hamilton’s always-rumpled white shirt is smeared crimson down to his armpits and around one cuff where his fist is clenched and dripping red. Even more unexpected and disturbing is that there’s blood coating his mouth and chin grotesquely, he looks like a fucking vampire or something out of a zombie horror movie. 

The most unexpected thing James sees; his expression is about as terrifying as Thomas’s on a bad day.

Thomas stiffens abruptly, face stormy. “Alex are you alright?”

“It’s not mine.” Hamilton spits out, striding forward and slamming his palm down in the center of the table and James gapes at the fucking _human tongue_ he’s just dumped there in the middle of their business meeting. He’s seen worse, he’s _done_ worse, but it’s still fucking jarring to see it as the guy snaps and rages at Thomas. 

“Tell your boys not to put anything in my goddamn mouth that they don’t want bitten off,” he snarls, baring his bloody teeth. “You make sure they know the next one that calls me a whore or tries to put their dirty-ass hands on me - I’ll tear out their fucking _throats_ instead.”

The wooden chair arms creak in protest under Thomas’s clenched fists as his eyes blaze furious, but it’s not all anger there in his expression; there’s undeniable heated interest too, and _Jesus_ , James has severely miscalculated here, because he can abruptly see what he’s missed about this guy; what has Thomas captivated beyond his body and his intelligence. He’s wild.

Thomas doesn’t think he’s an angel, at all.

He isn’t just a mess of a man with a respect problem, there’s carefully hidden, feral, _chaos_ behind his eyes, and Thomas, who is the epitome of cold, calculating control, has always been seduced by chaos and violence. 

James had done his research on the kid. He’d taken a mild interest when Thomas decided he was going to go and personally meet the troublesome little prick that had enough balls to flip off a Jefferson. He retraced and dug up everything he could when Thomas came home smiling around a bloody lip and went back again a week later for a second fuck. It was hardly like Hamilton had had the best childhood; absent father, abandoning brother, dead mother, dead cousin, dead village, cases upon cases of macabre sights and grim destruction and sure, he’s gotta have some kind of death wish to carry on the way he does. But looking at the ferocity in his eyes now it’s obvious that there’s no way he’s not riding that same knife-edge of sanity that Thomas is - that James is, to a lesser extent - borne from formative years of their exposure to violence and depravity in the family business. 

Thomas is gunpowder; passive and innocuous until sparked, then he’s violent and vicious and deadly; Hamilton is piss and vinegar and attitude until he’s pushed too far, then he’s savagery and wildfire. Of course they’re addictively explosive together. Of course Thomas has fallen for him.

Thomas snaps hard fingers at the boys by the door, _whoever the this was, find them and bring them_ , and he glares around the room at his gathered lieutenants. 

“Well. Is that message received, huh? You gonna pass that on? _Did you fucking hear him_?”

There’s a mumbling chorus around the room but Thomas draws it out until each one of them have met his gaze, acknowledged both him _and_ Alexander, and James is dumbstruck as the guys flick skittering eyes over his bloody face and nod until Hamilton huffs, mostly appeased, blusters away, stripping out of his shirt before he even gets out of the room, bitching and moaning about _how fucking late he’s going to be now I have to shower again, inconsiderate assholes, if someone gets put in prison now because I’m fucking late I swear to god-_

“Oh, one more thing _ma tempête_ -” he yells from down the hallway and the room stills automatically to hear him. Thomas glances between them approvingly at their respect. “-if anyone’s that goddamn desperate to know _how Thomas Jefferson likes to fuck_ , they can fucking come to you and ask for themselves in future. Shotgun a spectator seat for _that_.” Thomas’s eyes narrow at the implied quotation marks but his lips twitch despite himself.

“Shower, Alexander,” he drawls loudly, and they can hear Hamilton’s muffled yelling continued as he tears off to the annex above. 

Thomas stands as Reynolds is dragged in - of course it’s Reynolds - semi-conscious and pale, half his fucking mouth torn out by _Hamilton’s teeth_ and James takes a second to stare and appreciate the beauty in it’s brutality, because regardless of how he feels about the aggressor, it’s damn impressive. The perfect barbarity of it is surely the reason Thomas suddenly changes his mind and stands to follow after Hamilton - to go and demonstrate his own appreciation, snapping out _no-one fucking talks to him until I get back_ , motions for James to follow and speak with him as he walks. 

“I want to slaughter him.” Thomas says, serious and honest. Asking for advice. This is James’s job, and he’s glad to be able to do it again.

“I understand.” And James does. James understands now, even if he disagrees, even if he still doesn’t trust the guy, that Thomas is stupid over Hamilton. And so for now James has to act in Hamilton’s best interest. Anyone who was anyone in this city needed to be made aware he wasn’t to be touched. For Thomas’s sake. “But it will be better if you don’t, Thomas.”

“He put his _hands_ on Alex. He-”

“And Alexander showed him exactly what happens to people who touch what doesn’t belong to them.” James cuts in harshly, sees Thomas’s pupils dilate. Can’t really blame him. Hell, _James_ kind of wants to suck Hamilton off a bit after seeing Reynolds’ ruined face and he’s mostly straight and thinks the guy’s a prick. “And if you can manage not to kill him right now, Reynolds just _existing_ will show the rest of them too. It’ll be far more effective of a deterrent for him to walk around mute and mangled as a reminder to them all.”

Thomas growls in sulky frustration. “Fine. Fine.” James stops at the door leading upstairs, lets him continue on alone, regards him with a brittle smile. 

“I didn’t say you couldn’t _hurt_ him, Tom.” 

Thomas shakes his head, eyes flashing bright. “No. It’s perfect the way it is.” 

He’s talking about the damage to Reynolds’ maw like it’s a piece of art Hamilton’s painted just for him. James sighs inwardly and lets him go, prays to anyone and anything listening that Hamilton’s not going to screw them all. Because James has known Thomas for their entire lives; can now recognize the way adoration twists his features into something devoted and deadly loyal and Hamilton is pure chaos and hates boredom. 

Since when has chaos cared what it destroys? 

Thomas comes back down not long later, smears of blood dried around his own mouth, in his beard and on his shirt, buckle on his pants haphazard, fly undone and he could have changed, could have put himself back together but it’s another demonstration, that Hamilton will literally tear body parts off of anyone who touches him without his permission and yet let Thomas fuck him still covered in their blood. It’s as base and blatant as it can be; _he’s mine._

Something has changed since he went upstairs, though, because he goes back on what he’d said to James and when they’re alone with the guy he breaks both of Reynolds’ legs to go with Hamilton’s work, only holds himself back from putting him down like a dog _until Alexander is satisfied_. James wonders if Reynolds had actually managed to hurt Hamilton, at least a little, and he feels uneasy at the thought. 

Less than a week later it’s compounded when Hamilton takes on Reynolds’ mistreated wife as a pro-bono client and helps her divorce the fuck out of the guy quicker than James could click his fingers. Hamilton uses the law to take him for everything he has, then takes to his other weapon; his words, and rips into him in the court of public opinion as well, _wifebeater, rapist, petty extortionist, racist_ , all with damning receipts gathered from the grateful ex-wife and keeping careful distance from anything remotely connected to Thomas. Alexander ruins him financially and socially; savagely tearing him apart metaphorically to match the physical.

Later, when Reynolds turns up in his own home with a bullet in his brain, ruled a suicide, but with suspicion, James hears the mumbled speculation within their ranks. Nobody can decide whether it was by his own hand out of sheer desperation or by someone else’s out of malice; nobody knows whether it was Thomas or Alexander, though in the end it didn’t really matter because it was surely one of them, one way or another, and the lesson learned is the same regardless. _Don’t touch him._

_~~~_

Hamilton’s effective demonstration in consent aside, it’s not long after that Thomas - obviously unsettled though he wouldn’t admit it - insists he trains in self-defense. He drags James and Hamilton into the dining room, has the table shoved to one side and pushes a tiny, concealable, vicious little switchblade into Hamilton’s hand. There’s a ruby embedded in it’s hilt.

“I’m not doing this,” Hamilton bitches, because of course he does. He hops up onto the long dining table and swings his legs carelessly, stabs the blade into the wood and leaves it standing upright there like that table didn’t cost more than this fucking house. Thomas ignores it. James glares. “It’s ridiculo-”

“You _are_.” Thomas’s tone gives no room for argument. He steps up to Hamilton, whose knees spread wide automatically to frame his hips. James busies himself dragging the chairs across the room to make the space, because Thomas will get his way eventually, even if he has to fuck Hamilton into submission. James is used to being Thomas’s shadow, it wouldn’t bother him too much if he did, he much prefers this option; being at Thomas’s side to watch over his idiot best friend rather than the times Thomas insists on going off alone and unprotected where anything could happen to him. He doesn’t think Hamilton gives a fuck either, the way he curls forward and up for a kiss, wraps his legs around Thomas’s waist. Thomas buries one hand in Hamilton’s messy, dark braid and reaches out for the switchblade with the other. “I need you to be able to defend yourself if anything ever happens to me.” 

James has to force himself not to pause and snap at him. Flinching will be too obvious as the chair legs drag across the room. He feels weirdly both full of dread that this sweetness is being handed to a human-demon hybrid who will do god-knows-what with Thomas’s heart, and full of warm, fuzzy pride that he’s being trusted enough to overhear this. That Thomas trusts him with seeing this, even knowing that James doesn’t trust Hamilton. 

For once though, James at least _agrees_ with the asswipe; Hamilton hisses and snarls _shut the fuck up_ and devolves into a series of cusses that would make his ancestors roll over in their graves but Thomas chuckles, grabs his chin hard with one hand until he stops open-mouthed and then presses the flat of the blade against his lover’s tongue and holds it there. James drags a chair right by them and it’s like he’s not even fucking there; Hamilton wide-eyed, pupils blown and mouth full of metal, Thomas intent and serious. 

“ _Please_ , kitten.”

His brain breaks so hard over hearing Thomas say _please_ and mean it for maybe the first time since his father had died that he fucking _snorts_ at the pet name. Hamilton flips James off absently with both hands and doesn’t look away from Thomas. He licks up the blade until there’s blood on his tongue and glares.

“ _Not_ a fucking kitten.” He says it like he’s said it many times before, rote, the same way that Thomas follows it up with;

“Prove it, then.”

The three of them stay in the dining room until dusk; Thomas demands that James teach Hamilton how to defend himself - against _Thomas_. Thomas comes at him again and again and James has to grit his teeth and watch as Hamilton gets better and better at getting that fucking switchblade up in Thomas’s face, even if it is closed tight. It’s torture, because argumentative at first or not, the thrill of the fight and the hunger for power is Hamilton’s bread-and-butter, He’s always all-fight and no-flight and so he takes to it so well. James watches his eyes dance bright and sharp and electric every time he manages - even marginally - to get one over on Thomas. 

And Thomas won’t _swap_ , is the thing. James would much prefer this the other way around, have Hamilton coming at _him_ with a knife, however galling that would be; have Thomas safe to the side, watching and calling corrections and missed steps and places he can improve but Thomas won’t. 

James doesn’t know if his trust in James doesn’t extend as far as having him actively attack Hamilton or whether he truly just can’t stand the idea of anyone else’s hands on the little shit, but either way, he’s adamant and there’s nothing James can do about it. 

They repeat again and again whenever there’s time to spare until Hamilton’s holding his own, and it’s quicker than James would have thought; there’s none of that initial hesitation most people feel to actually cause harm to someone else. No, Hamilton thrives on that feral energy of his and he’s small and quick and few weeks after they’ve started, somehow Thomas ends up on his knees with the gremlin clawed to his back, one arm around his throat, switchblade at his neck and _he’s got it open_.

James rages inwardly, even as he panics that this fucking smug little piece of shit has a blade pressed to Thomas’s jugular, so tight that James can see blood welling across the length of it under the line of his trimmed beard and it wouldn’t take much more, just one swipe and Hamilton would topple an entire city and he damn well knows it. James sees exultant arousal in his eyes.

James wants to slap Thomas when he laughs delightedly, not a concern in the world for the fact that Hamilton has him by the throat, that with a twitch of his unpredictable mood he could have Thomas bleeding out all over his own dining room. No, Thomas doesn’t give a shit and James is so fucking angry with him, wants to scream for his lack of self-preservation around this little monster and why why why _why_ did he have to go and fall in love? 

Hamilton slides the blade lightly away from Thomas’s neck, drops it with a clatter and leans in to lick a stripe up the cut he’s left there. He bites Thomas’s ear lobe and whispers _I win_. 

James storms out and slams the door behind him on Thomas groaning low and rough in his chest and swinging him round and down to press him hard into the floor. The cries of Thomas’s name echo through the halls of The Townhouse for an hour afterward. 

The argument he and Thomas have later is a doozy, though it’s less of an argument than it is him ranting that Thomas is a _fucking idiot, blinded, reckless, too trusting, being manipulated-_

It’s the second time Thomas hits him over Hamilton. _I thought we were past this_ , he says, like James has disappointed him by not trusting the little ball of entropy he’s letting run roughshod all over him, but he just _can’t,_ Thomas is too important, not just to him but to their entire organization and James can’t bear the level of access Hamilton has to be able to damage him. Thomas is actually genuinely offended, real pain and deep hurt in his expression when he spits and snaps that Alexander would never hurt him and James laughs bitterly in his face, because _how the fuck does anyone know that?_ Alexander Hamilton is George fucking Washington’s baby boy and a law unto himself and he’s chaos and wildfire and Thomas is a sparking gunpowder _moron._

~~~

James genuinely doesn’t expect the possessiveness to go both ways. He knows Thomas isn’t fucking anyone else, of course - Thomas is hopelessly in love, and besides, James knows Thomas’s movements like the back of his hand of late, it makes him feel better about letting him go off alone if he knows where he’s going. Honestly though, he’d sort of expected that devotion to be a by-product of Thomas’s feelings, rather than anything Hamilton gives an actual shit about, and surely he doesn’t think he has the right to demand Thomas’s fidelity. But _ha, of course he does, he demands everything else, after all_ and it’s not a week later that Hamilton makes it clear that for all the _I-couldn't-care-less_ that he portrays, nobody’s allowed to play with _his_ toys, either. 

Thomas and James and a few of the boys are in the den, door wide open, nothing to be kept to themselves today; it’s the weekend and whoever happens to be around headquarters and not busy is more relaxed, spread around chatting over beers, Sunday football low in the background, smells of dinner wafting through from the kitchen. Thomas is good to them, when they’re all good to him. James sits back and breathes a little easier for once, one eye on the game and the other on Thomas - as always lately. He won’t take James’s concerns about Hamilton seriously, hardly keeping even half an eye on himself these days so James is feeling the absurd need to overcompensate.

Thomas is sprawled on his sofa, carefree and languid as he watches the TV. It’s like this most Sundays. There’s always an empty space left next to him that no-one will take. Sometimes Hamilton will come over and curl up beside him or half on top of him with a book or a notepad - no interest in sport - and Thomas will play absently with his hair and hum along to his worn-out under-breath grumbling about how _really fucking gay football is, are you all just pretending that’s not a thing? It’s badly disguised homo-eroticism at it’s finest, I mean there’s literally a dude called a tight end and what’s with all the fucking ass slapping-_

Even when he’s not around, no-one will sit in that seat anymore. It’s _Hamilton’s._

Today, however, someone’s close. John Lee’s brat of an offspring draped purposefully over the floor just in front of the sofa, leaning back with an arm thrown casually over the seat. He won’t dare climb up into the space, but it’s as blatant as he can manage while still retaining some respect. Thomas is ignoring it. The kid’s been slowly working his way towards Thomas over the last few weeks, encouraged by his father into trying to gain Thomas’s favor, seeing as Thomas can apparently now be so easily swayed by his cock. Thomas has privately told James how hilarious he finds it. He wants to know how far Lee would push his youngest, how desperately he’d whore out his own child as though he thinks Charles has anything to offer Thomas besides a sub par ride. 

He’s not bad bait, really. Charles is young, sweet, lithe; James thinks Thomas might actually have given him a going over maybe once before he beat some sense into his father back before Hamilton came along, but even James who still can’t stand Alexander can see there’s no candle to be held there. He’s timid and cowardly; nothing behind those pretty eyes except willing submission, and James can share in Thomas’s amusement a little, because Charles is supposed to be competition and it’s like John Lee has never met Alexander Hamilton before. 

It’s probably more that he doesn’t understand Hamilton’s appeal to Thomas, is trying to provide him an easier, quieter alternative in order to bump up his own reputation. James doesn’t think anyone else understands that it doesn’t matter what competition they throw at Thomas. Hamilton’s sparked his gunpowder and he’s burning along by himself. He’s too loyal for this life, really, a ride-or-die guy stuck on Hamilton for better or worse now.

 _Worse_ , James thinks, as that scratchy, annoying voice echoes down the hall going a mile-a-minute. They can hear him long before they see him, long enough to catch the million questions he’s firing off, obviously on the phone.

“-s that exactly three-quarters of an inch deep? Sweet. How precise does that have to be? So, exact then? No more, no less? What’s the thickest diameter the blade could be without causing problems to other areas? Okay. Cool. Say the incision was done properly, how much would it _bleed_? How fast would it-”

“Darlin,” Thomas drawls curiously as they see Hamilton pass by the open doorway, sliding along in his socks, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder, textbook open in one hand, pen scribbling in the margins with the other. “What the _fuck_ are you teachin’ yourself now?”

Hamilton pauses and whirls around to lean into the room, presses the phone against his chest and flashes the book cover. _Cross section anatomy and dissection of the male genitalia._ He grins at Thomas, bright and breezy until his gaze slides over to where Charles Lee is lolled on the floor in front of the sofa, arm almost touching Thomas’s foot. His smile widens a little and the display of extra teeth and the malice in his eyes turns the expression from something almost-sweet into something feral and terrifying for the briefest moment before his eyes flash back to Thomas and soften again.

“ _Castration_ ,” he says with a flat look, and blows Charles a mocking, glaring kiss before he’s gone, already back on the phone and three steps down the hall. “Sorry, Herc. So would the wound need cauterizing? Have you got any guests in the morgue? Can I come and cut them a little-”

They’re quiet for a second until Wilkinson can’t help but snort into his fist and it breaks Thomas; he cracks up helplessly, giving the rest of the room permission to dissolve into snickering or smirking at the very least. Even James cracks a smile. Charles shuffles uncomfortably even with a fake grin safely plastered on, makes sure to move his arm from within touching distance of Thomas. 

Thomas wanders off a few hours later and when he comes back he deliberately sends Charles off on an errand and home back to his father afterward.

That evening, Hamilton goes out; apparently _drinking with the Marquis_ , but honestly, James wouldn’t really be shocked if Charles Lee turned up castrated the following morning. He doesn’t doubt now that Hamilton would do it. 

Charles miraculously remains intact, but the following day Thomas sits down with John Lee, a few drinks and a baseball bat and _puts a stop_ to the game, Hamilton’s displeasure evident enough that Thomas suddenly doesn’t find the situation all that funny, anymore. 

~~~

In the end, in the nights following _the incident_ \- which is how they talk about it for ever afterward, dancing about on eggshells because Thomas is likely to cut a bitch for even mentioning it aloud - the thing that keeps James from sleeping until the early hours, besides the gnawing guilt in his gut, is that _Hamilton saw it first._

They’d been meeting Monroe and his guys, an actual honest-to-god _legitimate_ business venture burgeoning, legal binding contracts that they actually intended to adhere to. Contracts that, because it wouldn’t tar Alexander’s precious career, Thomas insisted Hamilton look at before he signed, never mind that Burr had gone over them with a fine tooth comb a million times over the past few weeks. 

Thomas had been sat there in conversation with Monroe, resplendent in purple, charming, razor-sharp smile in place and James had been so focused on the door, on their guys, Monroe’s guys, spread about the room that Hamilton was already standing, already moving - _always moving_ \- by the time James’s eyes caught on the tiny, blinking, vicious red LED in the center of Thomas’s forehead. 

It hits Hamilton dead center between the ribs instead - _instead of Thomas’s head, instead of Thomas’s fucking head shit, shit get it together James_ \- and he jerks inward like he’s been punched in the gut, jerks right back into where Thomas is still sat, hands grabbing at him automatically, bright, brilliant red blossoming slowly across his stupid fucking _Muppets_ t-shirt because he’s an asshole who can’t dress appropriately for a meeting and-

“-lex, _Alex, what the fuck_ ,” Thomas’s snarl is underlaid with panic in James’s ears as pandemonium breaks out, a fucking firefight in the middle of the goddamn day and _what the fuck is right, what the fuck, what the fuck, this doesn’t happen, this is not a thing that should be happening._ James whips around to see Thomas drop to the floor under the table, lowering Hamilton under him protectively with shaking hands and-

“-hit, _shit,_ no, what were you thinking, no, no, _James, get him out of here_ -”

James is getting them _both_ the fuck out of there, nods at his boys by the door to lay down cover, hears Monroe losing his shit at his own guns and realizes that this had nothing to do with him either and yells for Monroe’s guys to do the same so they can _all_ get the fuck out and figure out who’s trying to fucking _snipe_ his best friend. 

It’s a small miracle but they do, and with the combined defenses James can yell for Thomas to _grab Alex and get to the car_ because they’ll be a damn sight faster than a fucking ambulance and Thomas doesn’t need telling twice, he’s ripped his jacket off and into rags to stem the blood pooling in the dip of Hamilton’s stomach as he hauls him up in his arms and makes a break for it. James is on his heels and he can hear Monroe right behind him doing the same and as soon as they get out behind the building he leaves Monroe to it, darts across the road behind Thomas where Monty has heard the gunshots and has the car doors open already, wide eyed and pale, but fingers clenched around the wheel steady.

Hamilton gasps and flinches when Thomas slings them both as careful as he can into the back of the car and spits out a demand for the nearest hospital, like it wasn’t fucking obvious that there’s a hole in his boyfriend’s midriff. Monty guns it the second James barrels in too, moving before he even slams the door closed behind himself. He almost instantly wishes he’d gotten in the front; that he wasn’t sat opposite the helpless panic in Thomas’s expression.

“-such a fucking idiot, Alex, why, why _why the fuck would you do that?_ ” Thomas babbles down at him cradled in his arms and fuck, he’s _crying_ and Hamilton smiles like a goof, even as he hyperventilates, presses a wobbly finger to the mess and dots his own blood right in the center of Thomas forehead, a twisted caricature of that little red light James will be seeing in his nightmares for months to come. 

“Your face is far too pretty to have a hole in it, Tommy,” he mumbles. “Your brains are too smart to be on the outside.”

Thomas makes a noise like someone’s choking him and pulls him in tighter on to his lap, Hamilton hisses and whimpers in pain and Thomas’s mantra slips into _god, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry baby_ over and over.

“Thomas,” Hamilton slurs suddenly, and it looks like he’s shaking a little in Thomas’s grip, repeating it like his brain’s gotten stuck there. “Thomas. _Thomas_ -"

James can see the pain on Thomas’s face, the upset that he can’t offer a comforting touch positioned as he is, one arm wrapped Hamilton’s shoulders, holding him firm and still on his lap and the other pressing the wadded up jacket to his stomach, too-dark, really, for how long they still have to go to get to the nearest hospital. James has always been a sucker for Thomas in pain and _Hamilton had seen it first_ so he slides to his knees in the space where the two bench seats face each other, grabs the shirt in both hands and takes over the task. 

Thomas doesn’t hesitate in letting him and James wants to cry with the trust he’s being given here, but that’s really not appropriate right now. Hamilton makes a wounded noise as James presses tighter, his two hands more effective than Thomas’s one. 

That one hand of Thomas’s is already stroking over Hamilton’s face, blood smearing across his pale cheek. 

“I’m here, I’m here. Everything’s going to be okay, kitten, I swear-"

“Listen,” Hamilton slurs out determinedly, letting the pet name pass without mention for once, “Thomas you have to _listen_. You have to listen.” He blinks and blinks and blinks and for a second James thinks there’s nothing more to that sentence coming but then he focuses intensely up. “There’s a flash- A flash drive. Everything. Everything. It’s got everything I’ve ever fucking heard. _Seen_. Stuff I’ve nosed at. It’s-it’s-its- all the dirt on every fucker I have. Proof. Should-should-should keep you 'outta too much trouble for years if you need-"

James stares at him, dumbfounded.

It’s not like he’s never wondered how much Hamilton truly knows about the powerful people in this city. Since he’d declared having an intimate association with Thomas he’s not been allowed to work any cases remotely connected. He and Thomas both like it that way, but it means he’s been given a lot more high-level corporate bullshit and powerful, rich people doing fucked up shit instead of organized crime. With those high profile clients and unrestricted carte blanche trust in Washington’s offices, the amount of potential blackmail material he must have access to has always been a curiosity. 

It’s information he can’t _use_ , of course, without ruining his own life, his beloved career forfeit, most assuredly a prison sentence for breaching a million confidentiality contracts, pissing away the trust his pseudo father has in him but- well. The implication that Thomas might soon be able to use it freely without _ruining his life_ is stark and blatant and Thomas snaps;

“I don’t want to hear it. I’m not going to-“

“You _are_.” Hamilton fists Thomas’s hair, sticky congealing red gumming his curls together, not that either cares, and tugs weakly until Thomas is nose to nose with him. “I need you to be able to defend yourself if anything ever happens to me.”

Thomas sounds like he’s the one dying as his own words are thrown back at him. It’s on purpose, of course it is, Hamilton’s too fucking petty and obsessive to not remember every single thing any one person has ever said to him, so he knows damn well what’s he’s doing but so does Thomas because he snarls back;

“Shut the fuck up-“

“It’s un-“

“ _Shut the fuck up_.” Thomas yells again, desperately, like refusing to accept a location for this mystery flash drive will be enough to keep Hamilton alive out of sheer stubbornness. Knowing Hamilton, he might even be right.

“ _James_ ,” Hamilton pleads, tense and tearful and James remembers lean, bruised, bare thighs as he scrabbled about on the floor and knows exactly where it is. No-matter that he couldn’t find anything at the time, he knows it’s squirreled away somewhere under Thomas’s bed like a superstitious old wives tale; a twisted, bastardized kind of pagan talisman of blackmail material to keep his lover safe through the night. The entire time Hamilton has had his switchblade and hand-to-hand lessons Thomas has been sleeping steeped in Alexander’s own unique brand of defense; at his most vulnerable he’s unknowingly encircled in the best kind of protection Hamilton can offer besides his own brain. 

It’s almost sweet, romantic even, weird as it is. Maybe that’s just Hamilton. 

As the world rushes by outside the car, James kicks himself and starts to understand his misjudgments. Because he’s made a few. Hamilton’s spark wasn’t this feral wildfire until Thomas’s gunpowder and fuel. They feed each other’s flames. He was wrong. _Thomas isn’t burning alone_ and Hamilton isn’t indiscriminate chaos. He’s a tiny savage little inferno held in the cradle of Thomas’s open, impervious palm. He wouldn’t burn as bright anywhere else. He’s _Thomas’s_ chaos.

“Shut up, Hamilton,” James repeats dutifully, but he feels so fucking guilty and Hamilton’s blinking up at Thomas like he’s the only thing in the entire world; not caring to hide what James hadn’t realized existed, and he’s laying there housing a bullet that should have made its home in Thomas’s _skull_ , so James can’t help but concede and give him the reassurance he’s looking for. “Stop being a drama queen. Nothing a couple of nights of actual sleep won’t fix.”

Hamilton’s smart enough to pick up the acknowledgment he’s put down, but has also got a bullet in his gut and so is pretty shit at hiding it. Thomas can’t miss that something’s passed between them as Hamilton sags and closes his eyes in relief and he turns fiery, betrayed eyes on James that promise everything James loves will burn if he even _thinks_ about that flash drive ever again. 

James honestly doesn’t know if Thomas will be able to burn if anything happens to Hamilton. What would happen to _Thomas_? The thought strikes fear in his gut; Thomas uncontrollably incinerating himself from the inside out, burning cold and icy like the devil until there’s nothing left, or Thomas dissolving into soggy-wet impotent gunpowder and just never burning again at all, both horrific possibilities. 

James is putting Hamilton in a bullet-proof vest from now until the end of time, he decides. 

“Alex, _Alex_ , look at me,” Thomas demands and James glances up from the bloody wad of fabric to see Hamilton’s eyes still closed, though his chest is determinedly moving. “If you fucking die on me,” Thomas hisses, “I’m burying your ass at Monticello-"

James wants to ask what the fuck is _wrong_ with him, Jesus don’t say that right now, _too fucking close,_ but Thomas seems to know what he’s doing because he suddenly smiles weakly in relief when Hamilton drags his eyes open and starts blearily bitching like he’s sat in the annex lounge trading barbs across the room with Thomas over the complete barbarity of dipping McDonald’s fries into his milkshake.

“Don’t you _dare_ , you fucking asshole. Who the fuck wants to be buried in that dull-ass piece-of-shit state? There’s nothing even fucking _there_ except roads and fucking _fields_ no wonder they stuck the capital out there cause they felt so fucking sorry for how goddamn _boring_ you all are-"

They hit a bump and he goes completely white, devolving suddenly into harsh French that sounds like more of the same violent cussing; _enculé qui fait mal. Qui a inventé les balles. Je jure devant Dieu que je vais griffer les yeux de quelqu'un pour ces fils de putes_ until they swerve sharply around another bend and clip over a curb and he fucking screams. Before Thomas can even put noise to the breathtaking fury on his face there’s the sound of Monty yelling desperate apologies _fuck fuck fuck sorry, so sorry Alex, sorry boss, we needed to get around this cunt that wouldn’t move I’m so sorry, Jesus_ and James is stuck on how ingrained Hamilton is to them that even Monty is calling him _Alex_. 

His French has slipped into softer, mumbled panting, eyes squeezed tight as he slurs; _vous brûlez mon âme, Thomas. Je t'aime plus que la vie elle-même. Mon sang, mes os, mes entrailles sont le feu pour toi, l'œil de ma tempête-_ and James doesn’t speak a lick of French but even the most monolingual of people would recognize the use of _je t’aime_ in that breathy, soft tone so he can gather the gist of the rest of it.

How has he never picked out Thomas’s adoration mirrored in Hamilton’s expression?

Thomas brushes sweat sticky hair out of his face and smirks down at him, albeit wobbly. “Ah, kitten. You think I didn’t make an effort to learn a little after that stunt with Lafayette?” 

Hamilton pulls a face and switches immediately back to English with what looks like some effort; “-not a fucking kitten, you asswipe sonofabitch-” and Thomas laughs.

“Too late, sweetheart. Don’t even try it, you sappy shit.”

Alexander grins around a laugh of his own and coughs out a suddenly quiet _worth a try_ and there’s blood in his mouth, painting his gums obscenely bright red against his white teeth and pale, wan skin. Thomas kisses him anyway and James’s hands are cramping from keeping pressure; he readjusts them and reaches out to grab hold of Hamilton’s errantly waving wrist to press fingers to his pulse - too slow but still somehow strong and suddenly Monty’s yelling out _boss, boss we’re almost there, get ready_ and holy mother of God, they might actually get through this alright. 

Hamilton coughs again and mumbles slowly, faintly _you should- should drop me off. They’ll call Wash y’know_ and Thomas tells him to _shut the fuck up_ again.

“I’m not leaving you,” he says, already looking ahead out of the window in preparation and then frowns. “We were being fucking legit. _Goddamn it_. And why the fuck is he your next of kin?”

Hamilton scowls, even through the blood smeared over his cheeks and the dazedness in his gaze. “Not got official family that gives a shit, y’know,” he mumbles quietly, eyes fluttering closed again. 

Thomas blinks for a second and smooths a hand over his sweaty forehead, taps Hamilton on the cheek lightly, and then less lightly again when he doesn’t immediately open his eyes, until he does, blinking disoriented up as Thomas reaches down to slide an arm under his knees ready to lift him out of the car. 

“We’ll fix that,” he promises into Hamilton’s hair, not that James thinks the guy is really with it to hear him anymore, but James is, and he wonders whether Thomas is referring to the _next of kin_ thing or the _official family_ thing or both, but it’s really not the time to ask, because he can _see_ the hospital and he can _see_ Hamilton still breathing, albeit quick and shallow, and _thank fuck for that_. 

He has to prod Thomas into a chair when the staff swipe Hamilton from his arms and hurry him away, behind doors Thomas can’t follow through, leaving him stood redundant and lost in the middle of the emergency room. He goes where James sits him, holds the bottle of water James gives him, stares blankly ahead until he says _I should deal with this, right?_ sounding as dazed as Hamilton had in the back of the car, and honestly, James thinks he might be more of a hindrance at the minute, but he’s not going to say that. 

What he does say is _I’ll deal with it_ , and when Thomas blinks and looks at him a little more clearly he repeats _I’ll deal with it. Let me take care of it_ and then with his face says _please let me do this, I’m sorry_. Thomas exhales so hard James thinks he might start crying again, but he doesn’t, he just pitches forward and rests his forehead on James’s shoulder for a second until he shakes himself out of wherever he’s just gone in his head and leans away, nods, brittle but grateful and James leaves him to it, has no interest in hanging around and making awkward conversation with George Washington. 

Someone deliberately interrupted an unprecedented business deal between two of the most powerful men in this city. That can’t be allowed to slide without investigation. Someone tried to shoot Thomas. Someone put a bullet in Thomas’s boyfriend. That can’t be allowed to slide without complete evisceration. 

James has a lot of work to do.

~~~

A month after _the incident_ , Thomas gets taken in by the police again, trying in vain to tie him to the sudden, abrupt disappearance of an entire faction of George King’s remaining loyal men. Apparently they’d found proof that the missing Seabury and his gang had shot Thomas’s boyfriend. They had a few questions for him.

It wasn’t like they _had_ anything. They never did.

And James had been very careful.

They call him and ask him to come down to the station for a chat, because that’s what they do with Thomas, _never_ come and get him in a squad car, heaven forbid, but it’s phrased in a way that suggests it will be more trouble to say no than yes. 

As the door shuts behind his best friend, James doesn’t hesitate, flicks out his phone and calls Hamilton.

When Alexander answers with a bleary _‘lo?_ and then follows James’s huffy _Thomas is wearing blue, again_ with an exasperated _motherfuckers, why is it always when I’m sleeping_ , James feels something slip easily into place as he wanders through the house.

“Give them a couple hours to soothe their fragile little egos at least, would you?”

Alexander groans. “Ugh. _Fine_. I’ll come over to you first.”

James finds Monty in the kitchen and clicks his fingers at the phone as he speaks. “I’ll send you a car.” Monty nods, doesn’t need telling where he’s going.

“And coffee?”

“Sure," James agrees. "and coffee.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> ma tempête: my storm.  
> In actuality in my headcanon for this, in private, when he’s feeling particularly sentimental, Alex calls Thomas “œil de ma tempête” (the eye of my storm), Which is far more accurate, but he shortens to ma tempête often for brevity. He knows what he means. Thomas knows what he means. James doesn’t. 
> 
> enculé qui fait mal. Qui a inventé les balles. Je jure devant Dieu que je vais griffer les yeux de quelqu'un pour ces fils de putes / motherfucker that hurts. Who invented bullets. I swear to god I'ma claw somebody's eyes for this, motherfucker
> 
> vous brûlez mon âme, Thomas. Je t'aime plus que la vie elle-même. Mon sang, mes os, mes entrailles sont le feu pour toi, l'œil de ma tempête / you burn my soul, Thomas. I love you more than life itself. My blood, my bones, my insides burn for you, the eye of my storm-
> 
> [Title from: Pusha T - The games we play]


End file.
